A Magical Antithesis
by Council of Intellectuals
Summary: Erza Belserion has never known the warmth of friends, only the cold of family. Tristan Siegrain has never known the light of love, only the darkness of hatred. Both will meet in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Voldemort is rumored to have returned, but who is this new villain known as Zeref? Masks will fade and betrayals made, as the wizarding world falls into war.
1. Chapter 1

_How had things gone so impossibly wrong?_

Randall Lawson sprinted down the alleyways of Tottenham, his heart hammering his ribcage. He clutched the black market AK-47 and ran like his life depended on it, which it actually did. Rounding the corner he nearly bowled over Kody Pip and Marshall Woodrow, both decked out in mismatched body armor and wielding similar weapons. All three bore the insignia of the Fire Fang Gang, an underground group that dealt with bribery, extortion, and firearms smuggling. As one of the most dangerous criminal organizations with one of the largest illegal armed forces in the UK, the FFG was a group to be feared and respected. Everyone in the underworld recognized the flaming tooth impaled in a human skull. Boasting over two hundred armed "troops" and plenty of weapons and ammunition, the Fire Fang Gang had survived military police attacks and brutal gang wars for nearly half a century.

Which was why their current situation was surprising, to say the least. Not only had some unknown group picked a fight with them, but the FFG was losing. Badly. Black-uniformed soldiers wielding modified assault rifles were cutting through their positions like there wasn't any resistance. The unknown group had steamrolled through anything the FFG threw against them, and had already wiped out over half of the FFG's fighting force.

Lawson righted himself after avoiding a collision, and turned back the way he came from, eyes wide and panting heavily. All three aimed their automatic weapons down the alley, shaking with fear and anticipation.

"Oi, how many-how many of them are there?"

Pip was noticeably shaken, a direct contrast to the man who'd bet £50 that he could take eight shots of 101 Proof Bourbon two nights ago.

"No idea, they keep appearing out of nowhere!" cried Lawson, "It's like they're teleporting!"

Pip was shaking so badly his knees were practically knocking together. He barely managed to stammer out a weak "Is it the fuzz?"

"Can't-can't be. These blokes didn't even try to take us alive!" Woodrow babbled.

A small metal cylinder bounced off the left wall and clattered into the middle of the alleyway. Pip and Lawson were able to avoid the flashbang's detonation, but Woodrow wasn't. Lawson hurled himself to the side and landed awkwardly. He opened his eyes and felt Pip's hand dragging him up. Lawson clambered to his feet and the two sprinted as fast as they could from their unknown enemy. In the moment Lawson turned, he could see Woodrow's unmoving body sprawled on the ground. Then he completed his turn and sprinted, running for his life.

"Let those two lead us back to their final holdout. We've already located and destroyed their other strongholds. The other lances have reported a confirmed total body-count of 147."

The figure of a young man stared dispassionately at the backs of the two fleeing FFG members. Another figure wearing black combat gear and holding a what appeared to be a M16 assault rifle nodded in compliance. These two and several others equipped similarly watched Pip and Lawson disappear around a corner from the top a brick building. To any random passerby wandering the rundown streets of Tottenham at 10 PM however, the space seemed completely empty.

Lawson and Pip sprinted into the abandoned railroad station at breakneck speed. A hastily constructed line of old shipping crates and other movable barricades provided cover for the remaining fifty-something members of the Fire Fang Gang's armed forces.

"Oi! Lawson, were you two followed!?"

Lawson and Pip whirled around and raised their weapons. Nothing.

"I don't see anybody."

Lawson and Pip moved behind the makeshift barricade. Lawson tried to calm himself. However, no matter how many deep breaths he took, he could still feel his heart trying to jackhammer its way out of his ribcage. A quick glance around told him that the others felt the exact same way.

They stayed that way for a minute, nerves mounting to unimaginable heights. Rapid and shallow breaths. Constantly rechecking their weapons. Glaring at the single entrance to the compound. Shaking with undiluted fear of the unknown enemy they faced.

Another minute passed.

Then another.

And another.

 _Crack!_

Fifty haphazardly yet extremely well-armed FFG members practically leapt out of their skin as the sudden and ominous sound echoed off of the metallic walls of the compound. Lawson and everyone else whipped their heads around, searching for the source of the noise. In front, nothing. Left side? Nothing. Right side? Still nothing. What about behind? Everyone turned around raising their weapons only to find themselves facing a wall with absolutely nobody in sight.

"WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY!?"

The FFG troops continued their frantic search for their enemy. Lawson rechecked his surroundings, before looking up. There, standing on top of the twenty foot tall walls composed of empty cargo trailers, stood a line of imposing figures.

"UP! THEY'RE ABOVE US!"

All FFG members raised their weapons and began shooting, sending a storm of automatic gunfire toward the enemy.

 _"Protego Totalum."_

The space in front of the unknowns warped and shifted, the caster of the spell having anticipated the barrage of bullets. The projectiles shattered upon impact with the invisible barrier and clattered on the ground below them.

Having been unnerved by the strange barrier, the sudden appearance of the enemy, and the nerve-wracking wait, the FFG members could do nothing but spray gunfire and hope for the best. After a deafening symphony of gunshots, a chorus of desperate clicking signified that everyone had run out of ammunition.

The young man standing in the center of the black-clad group lowered his arm as the soldiers flanking him stepped forward and aimed their modified rifles.

Lawson and the others tentatively stepped backwards before the enemy rifles spat out green blasts of energy that dropped them where they stood. Lawson survived the first salvo and watched as people he'd known for years suddenly crumpled noiselessly to the ground like puppets whose strings had been cut. He did not survive the second salvo, and neither did anybody else. Once the riflemen stopped shooting, the leader raised his arm again and aimed his wand at the row of dead bodies.

 _"Incendio."_

A jet of fire sprang from the tip of the caster's wand. Starting at one end, the mysterious man slowly swept his arm across, cremating the bodies of the dead and melting their weapons into slag.

Their mission now accomplished, he waved his hand dismissively and his soldiers disappeared with a series of sharp "crack"s. He himself lingered for a while, gazing at the still burning remains of the Fire Fang Gang. Allowing for a moment of indulgence, he permitted a slight smirk to cross his face. With one final, echoing "crack", he disappeared, leaving a line of scorched bodies behind in an abandoned railroad juncture in Tottenham; at last, an eerie quiet settled.

Several Months Earlier. . . .

Tristan Siegrain immediately felt a wave of uncomfortable greasiness wash over him as he regained consciousness. He groaned himself awake and groggily wiped his hand across his face, as if attempting to cast away his fatigue. It wasn't until he'd staggered to the nearest bathroom and washed the gunk out of his eyes that he escaped sleep's persistent hold. After rinsing his face, he looked at himself in the mirror, reflexively checking his raven hair and running a hand down the left cheek. He walked back through the stone hallways of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to the school's library. As he ungracefully plopped himself down in a rather secluded area already marked by piles of textbooks and scrolls (he was far too tired to be graceful), he ran his hand through his hair and cursed the wizarding world for its lack of coffee. No amount of magic could replace the feeling of satisfaction and warmth the beverage brought him.

He let out a sigh that like undiluted despair itself and resigned himself to his work. As he reached out for yet another worn leather-bound textbook from the pile on his right, he cursed the wizarding world again for its redundancy and lack of organization. The substantial pileon his left showed the rather impressive amount of textbooks he'd already summarized. The much larger pile on the right showed the amount of textbooks he'd yet to go through. He hadn't expected this sort of note taking to be so time-consuming, but the books were long, redundant, and often had to be translated or deciphered. It wasn't that the individual textbooks and scrolls were redundant, they were actually rather concise and lacked information in some areas. It was just that the others often were just copies of the same magical theories or concepts with a slightly different direction. The magical world lacked an effective organizational system for its vast repository of information. Countless witches and wizards had seemingly pioneered a new path of magic only to discover that if they'd visited a certain part of the Hogwarts library or gone to talk to a certain noble family that such a book detailing this sort of magic already existed.

It was a sign of their decadence that such knowledge was often repeated. It had been nearly a century since any new types of magic or other groundbreaking discoveries had been made, and the current level of knowledge hadn't even been synthesized or organized coherently. It was also a marker of their arrogance, thought Tristan, that various nobles refused to share their knowledge and that those unlucky witches/wizards who'd "discovered" new magic published their findings either way simply to make a name for themselves. He didn't know which he loathed more, only that all of these factors contributed to making his current job very tedious. It took him an hour to work his way through L. Wakefield's book _Numerology_. In the back of his mind, he knew that he'd be much more interesting researching combat spells and the process of developing his individual brand of magic; unfortunately, this was also important. As he reached the end of the torturous reading he could feel his eyelids getting heavier. Perhaps spending a day and a half in the library synthesizing the various textbooks on arithmancy and numerology wasn't such a good idea after all.

Erza Belserion elegantly descended the stone stairs and nodded politely to a pair of third-years gawking at her hair. She often got looks due to her bright hair color, and had gotten used to it. Even though she was a seventh-year, it had only been a few months since she entered Hogwarts. In the afternoon light, her bright-yellow Hufflepuff badge practically shone like a beacon. She'd already tried covering it with her robes, but gave up on the effort and resigned herself to the label. Inwardly, she dreaded the letter she knew she'd receive when her mother discovered she'd been sorted into the "weakest" house in Hogwarts. Irene had a very distinct idea of what strength was, and Erza had always seemed to fall short of it. Erza had begged the battered hat in the sorting, to no avail. Gryffindor would have been ideal, although she would have been fine in Slytherin as it had many other notable pureblood families that would have welcomed the Belserion heir. Ravenclaw would have been acceptable as well due to its recognition as an intellectually superior house. However, fate had not been kind and Erza had been placed in the house of the badger.

She unconsciously shook her head to ignore her worries and continued on her way to the library. Normally, she'd be spending her weekend doing something else or studying in the common room, but she'd recently been dislodged from her top spot in the recent Numerology tests and sought to brush up. She made no detours, except for quickly ducking into a random room to avoid Cormac McLaggen. Though he was a Gryffindor, he was insistent on her joining Quidditch and competing in the Inter-House Cup. While she was more athletic than other students, the thought of flying on a broom made her nauseous. She preferred to keep her feet on terra firma, and saw no reason to perform acrobatics on some flimsy broom. It wasn't like she had no other hobbies.

The afternoon sunlight made the intricately designed library glow. The Hogwarts library really was incredible. She vaguely remembered where Wakefield's _Numerology_ was, and searched for it. However, after thoroughly checking and rechecking the group of bookshelves she remembered seeing it in, she gave up and cast a seeking charm to point her to it. She followed the trail to a secluded area of the library, where the bookshelves covered most of a table from casual view. There were two large piles of at least thirty textbooks, none of which were her target. As she got closer she realized that _Numerology_ was the textbook which the sole occupant of the table was sleeping on. She sighed in annoyance and went to take it, only for the black-haired boy to shift and clutch the book to his chest possessively. She glared and went to try again, only to stop in surprise. She recognized the boy, after all, he was the one who'd claimed her top spot in Septima Vector's _Numerology_ class. What was his name? Siegrain. Something Siegrain.

Siegrain wasn't a name she recognized, and it didn't sound like it belonged to any of the English Pureblood families. The boy was very plain looking as well, though that may have just been the school robes. His messy hair and crumpled robes contributed to his disheveled look, and contrasted sharply against the neat piles of textbooks and detailed note sheets.

Irritated, Erza stepped forward briskly and grabbed the book. Once her fingers clasped the edges of the book firmly, she yanked it out of Siegrain's hands, inadvertently dragging him out of his seat-and his blissful sleep.

Siegrain had fallen into a deep sleep after finishing his notes on Walkefield's textbook. Considering he'd gotten only short naps in between his work for the past day and a half, he welcomed the tranquil embrace of unconsciousness. Suddenly he found himself forcefully yanked out of his gentle requiem. As one could expect, he did not take kindly to the affront.

"BLOODY HELL, WHAT ON EARTH ARE YOU DOING YOU BLOODY LUNATIC!?"

Erza was taken aback at the previously tranquil boy's reaction. It was as if she'd set off a landmine. However, she was the Belserion heiress, and no one dared to speak to her in such a manner.

"I'm getting a textbook, what does it look like!?"

Had he been in a more rational state of mind, perhaps Siegrain would have been much forgiving and would have conducted himself slightly better. However, Siegrain had been awoken from a blissful sleep and was still plagued by his eternal shoulder demon known as "fatigue", so rationality disappeared from his mind. Therefore, he responded in kind.

"What kind of person wakes someone up to get a bloody textbook!?"

Erza was normally a calm and reserved girl, as was expected of a Hufflepuff. However, Siegrain's status as someone who surpassed her academically, someone who came from an unknown background, and someone whom she saw as the cause of the entire situation riled her up and led her to angrily retort back.

"What kind of person sleeps with a textbook in their arms!?"

Seeing Siegrain's momentary look of confusion over her statement, Erza misinterpreted as hesitation on his part and capitalized on this "opening".

She smirked, tilting her head slightly, and mocked him, "Is the little boy homesick? Perhaps he needs his favorite teddy?"

Siegrain noticed the disdainful tone of her voice and her bright red hair. Naturally, he recognized her as the Belserion heiress. He recognized all of the students who belonged to privileged families.

"Maybe I care more about my academics more than the sleeping habits of other?"

How could Erza not become infuriated with this insult? After all, the whole reason she came to the library in search of the textbook was because he'd taken her spot as the top student in Numerology.

"Or maybe you just want to sabotage others' progress. Who on earth takes so many textbooks at once?"

What was Siegrain supposed to say? _"Oh, I'm just synthesizing all of the information in this bloody library so it actually makes sense because the previous writers were all arrogant pricks."_ Of course he couldn't say that, that would be rude, as pureblood families often prided themselves on tradition and ancient knowledge. As the gentleman he was, he naturally held his tongue and refrained from saying something that could possibly insult the angry redhead in front of him.

Rather, he directed his anger against her, and said something would infuriate the redhead with absolute certainty by going after her mother.

"How amusing, especially coming from someone whose mother does nothing else _but_ hold others back."

It was true, Eileen Belserion had financially and socially destroyed several nouveau riche families that had crossed her path.

"Who do you think you are? You dare to insult my mother?"

"I'll dare to insult you next, you pureblood elitist! I don't give a damn about your blood!"

"Perhaps you should, with such a crass attitude."

"You're the one who started this whole ordeal!"

"No, you are, you daft idiot!"

"How!? I was sleeping, you-"

"Don't dare to talk back to me! I am-"

"Don't talk back to you!? Talking back is half of a conversation!"

"I know how to hold a conversation you wifty moron!"

"Then maybe you'll explain to me how I am the cause of this!"

"Maybe I will!"

"Then do so!"

The two glared at each other, their eyes clearly demonstrating a desire to kill. Erza hadn't moved from her initial position, though her hands were on her hips and her head was tilted back. Siegrain had advanced a few steps, and was capitalizing on his height advantage to glare into the redhead's eyes. Neither one moved, simply communicating unbridled and baseless hatred through the intensity of their scowling.

"You wouldn't let me have the bloody textbook", Erza hissed.

"This library is common property, no one has privilege over another in the usage of a textbook." Siegrain was equally quiet, though his voice still carried the same amounts of disgust and anger.

"You weren't using it. Need I remind you that you were sleeping?"

"I was using it."

"Oh, right. You were using it as a pillow. However, I need to use it to actually study, so I'll be leaving with it now."

Even though he was already done with the book, Siegrain wasn't about to concede to this arrogant girl.

"I'm not done using it."

"Stop being so arrogant, you were only sleeping on it!"

"Stop being so arrogant!? You're the arrogant one here!"

"Let me go with the bloody book."

"Do you believe that you can simply take anyone's library book without their permission?"

"I'm commanding you to give me permission to leave with your library book!"

"Then that's. Not. Called. Giving you permission!"

"This doesn't need to be so difficult, just give me the bloody book!"

"No! Every person in the library is provided with certain and unalienable rights to the books!"

"I will hex you."

Erza practically growled the words out. Both were hurling broken glass and contempt at each other with every syllable they spoke.

"Try it, aristocrat wannabe."

Minerva Mcgonagall had been a teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for a very long time. She had seen many strange things in her years of teaching. The magical world was known for its strangeness, after all. However, seeing two top-tier students arguing and threatening to hex each other over a textbook, L. Wakefield's _Numerology_ nonetheless, earned a raised eyebrow from the Transfiguration professor. Deciding that her intervention was necessary, she attempted to break up the fight.

"Miss Belserion! Mister Siegrain! That's enough out of you two!"

Normally, her death glare would send students running for cover. However, these two didn't so much as flinch, as they were in their own world. A small world with them as the sole two occupants, and created out of equal parts of disgust, contempt, hatred, and spite, but a separate world nonetheless.

Siegrain, the black-haired boy who'd shown a remarkable talent for dueling and had quickly absorbed the knowledge of the magical despite knowing about for less than two months, ignored her and growled, "Try it, aristocrat wannabe."

Noticing that both had their hands on their wands, Erza's cherrywood chased with silver, Siegrain's a simple rod made of yew, Mcgonagall drew her own wand, cast a quick sonorous charm, and shouted to gain their attention.

"Both of you, that's enou-"

Mcgonagall's shout brought both Siegrain and Erza out of their separate world. While both were yanked back to reality, both had very different reactions. Erza realized what she was doing and looked ashamed, while Siegrain went to DEFCON 2 and drew his wand. He reflexively cast an _expelliarmus_ and _stupefy_ combination at the intruder.

Before Mcgonagall completed her sentence, she noticed Tristan's movements. She was Dumbledore's right hand for a reason, and was an accomplished duelist herself. Before Tristan brought his wand to bear and cast his disarming spell, the headmistress of Hogwarts had already cast a nonverbal _finite incantatem_ to nullify the spell and disarmed the raven-haired boy before he could stun her.

While Mcgonagall had reacted fast enough to completely suppress Tristan's attacks, she was still surprised at his speed and instincts. As well as the fact that he'd just tried to hex a teacher.

Meanwhile, Erza was staring at SIegrain with a look of surprise and growing apprehension. She smirked as she saw the look of fear and regret that spread across Tristan's face as he realized just _who_ he tried to fight.

 _How had things gone so impossibly wrong?_

This thought ran through both Erza and Siegrain's minds at the same time.

 _"I just wanted a textbook, and that wifty idiot made me lose fifty points for Hufflepuff!"_

What fired through Erza's synapses could be described as pure rage. All she could do was simmer in the general unfairness of the situation and plan various ways to brutally torture the raven-haired ravenclaw in her spare time. In her defense, she'd done nothing wrong. From her perspective, it was Siegrain who'd overreacted.

"Over a textbook, no less! Could he be any more petty? For a Ravenclaw, he doesn't seem that bright."

Erza glowered surreptitiously at the black haired boy who was currently cleaning off one of the many ornate candelabras in the Great Hall. The moment Siegrain felt her menacing stare fall onto his back, he flinched involuntarily as the redhead had cast an actual spell instead of a glare. Siegrain sighed. At least the punishment wasn't as harsh as, say, Professor Snape. While Siegrain had a secret relationship with the dark and brooding Potions teacher, it wasn't one that allowed him any slack. If anything, Snape held him far more accountable to even the smallest of mistakes as if to hide the fact that they'd known each other for a while. After all, the Potions teacher was the one who'd given Siegrain a comprehensive, if extremely basic, background on magic. Even if the scariest male professor in Hogwarts recognized Siegrain's talents, that wouldn't stop the professor from sentencing the student to trauma via toad disembowelment. Though that punishment would have been made a lot more bearable if it meant being able to watch that pureblood Belserion heiress squirm.

Attempting to distract himself from thinking about the current nuisance polishing candelabras behind him, he found the punishment rather light, considering he'd attacked the disciplinarian of the school. Only losing a hundred and fifty points of the house was practically benevolent on Mcgonagall's behalf, and Siegrain was completely fine with physical work. The only thing that he found vexing was the fact that his library usage was extremely restricted, as he could no longer take books out of the library or spend time in there at all unless a class required it. And these restrictions would remain in place for two weeks, something that would screw up his schedule. All because of that girl.

Siegrain finished wiping out the melted wax from the candle holders and turning to glare at the female in question, who was having surprisingly little difficulty with the physical task she'd been presented with. Pureblood students, especially ones with well-known parents such as the "Queen of Dragons", often trembled at the slightest mention of physical labor.

"Just what are you looking at?"

Erza's question snapped him out of his reverie. He glared hotly at her.

"For a pureblood, I'm surprised you're not collapsing at the thought of cleaning with your bare hands."

"For a someone like you, I'm surprised you're able to attend this school."

"Tch."

"All of this is your fault. Now I can't use the library."

"My fault? You were the instigator. Why don't you take responsibility?"

"I have no reason to apologize to you. Why do you want an apology?"

"Because I deserve at least that for the trouble you've caused me."

"It's like punching someone in the face and then demanding reparation for injuries caused. This is entirely your fault. Why don't you stop looking for an apology and take some responsibility for once? I'm sure you had plenty of servants to do that for you back at mummy's place."

"A comment like that shows you know nothing about me. My family is one of nobility and honor. I always take responsibility for my actions."

"You're not even trying to hide your hypocrisy, are you? This is clearly your fault, and you use some excuse about your family's 'honor' to shift the blame on to me? Actions speak louder than words."

"They sure do. A muggleborn like you would hardly understand the prestige of the distinguished families. It's not like we have our titles for nothing."

"Why don't you stop hiding in your mother's shadow and do something of significance yourself? You purebloods and your emphasis on blood superiority."

"My mother worked hard to ascertain her position."

"I'm not talking about your mother, am I? I've already acknowledged her, you're the one I'm talking about. What does blood have to do with anything? Is your blood any different than mine?"

"Any insult against me is considered an attack on the family."

"You're dodging the question, is your blood anything different than mine?"

"I don't need to answer your question."

"Classic pureblood. Anytime you people find something you can't magic your way out of, you pretend it either doesn't exist or is beneath you. Just like Voldemort."

Erza flinched at the mention of the Dark Lord's name.

"A muggleborn like you shouldn't dare to say that name."

"I have a voice, so why don't I use it? God knows I make better use of it than you people."

"He targets muggleborns like you."

"So? He's not so scary. He's just a glorified murderer toting a fanatical ideal of discrimination and a Napoleon complex. 'Muggle' history is full of people like him. And by the way, since when did you care about my welfare?"

"Are you implying I have some sort of affection for you?"

Erza had had many suitors from other pureblood families claim she had secret affections for them. Due to her beauty and unique hair, she was well-known among the high class, and she detested it thoroughly.

"I'm not implying anything. You seem to like arguments though. You take any sort of dialogue as provocation. You must have lots of friends."

"With such a witty personality, you must be quite the platonic interest."

"You know, I'm starting to understand why you're in Hufflepuff. You're the spitting image of a honey badger."

"Excuse me? Are you saying I'm soft?"

Siegrain had to bite his lip from bursting out into laughter. If only she knew just how terrifying the mascot of the supposedly "weak" house was. After all, it lived and thrived in Australia of all places. After gathering his wits, he retorted again.

"Is your ego such a fragile thing that you have to butt heads with everyone you meet to keep it afloat?"

Erza glared furiously at her fellow detention-mate. She really wanted to hex him, though she remembered his willingness to attack a teacher. Not to mention he'd already accused her of being to ready to jump to violent magic to resolve her problems, and she'd intoxicate herself with butterbeer before she knowingly proved this self-righteous brat right. Try as she might, she couldn't find a logical argument to counter his claims. If Siegrain's argument had been less prolific in derogatory accusations against pureblood families, maybe she would have been more receptive to his position. As it stood, she couldn't formulate a rational argument that didn't repeat what she'd already said, so she merely continued to glare at him.

Siegrain returned her glare, and both turned away from the candelabras they were supposed to be polishing in order to face the one person they were not supposed to be threatening.

As if on cue, Mcgonagall appeared.

"Both of you, that's enough. Get back to work and finish your detention or I will have Professor Snape conduct your detention for you."

Both students immediately dropped their glares and meekly went back to polishing.

Back in the warmly decorated Hufflepuff common room, Cedric Diggory was relaxing in the warmth of the fire from the hearth when he noticed Erza's entrance. While most of the school had simply recognized her for her last name, Hufflepuff wasn't a house that focused on blood ties. Ironically, while Hufflepuff was the last place she wanted to be in, it was probably the best environment for her, given that it was stable and inviting, and provided the constant support she'd never gotten in her life. However, Erza ignored the possible benefits that the house of the badger offered her, and had made very few friends due to her introverted behaviour. Cedric was one of the few who had been able to establish a relationship with her. As another seventh-year and a new student, she'd come to appreciate the guidance of the kind yet determined prefect.

"Erza! How are you?"

"I just got back from a detention with Mcgonagall. Sorry, I lost fifty points for the house."

Cedric blinked in surprise. Erza had proven to be a diligent and composed student in the several months that he'd known her. FIfty points wasn't a small number either.

"Oh," he said, "it's fine. I'm sure it was for a good reason. What happened?"

Erza blinked and formulated her thoughts.

"Um.… I got into a rather…. heated argument with another student about the…. um…. natural privileges afforded to students in the library. Merlin's beard, that sounds ridiculous."

Cedric had to take a moment to process.

"I'm sorry, an-an argument over library privileges?"

"I-I know, it's just as ridiculous as it sounds."

Cedric had the grace not to press any further. Erza looked mortified and had flushed the same color as her hair.

"Well, as long as it doesn't happen again, everything's fine. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Mcgonagall was pretty lenient on our punishment, even though Siegrain tried to hex her."

Cedric had to take another moment to process.

"I'm sorry, someone tried to hex Mcgonagall of all people? Are they alright?"

"He's fine, but he's the reason I wanted to talk to you."

"Alright," Cedric inquired, "who is _he_?"

"Something Siegrain. I don't know his first name, but I know his last name is Siegrain. He's a Ravenclaw. Since you and Cho are dating, I figured you might be able to find something out about him. He seems like he's a good student, since he's aced every recent test in Numerology. But the weird thing is that I've never seen or heard about him before."

"I can definitely ask Cho. Is there something specific you wanted to know about him?"

"Nothing specific. I just want to know who he is."

"Alright then."

Cedric got up to leave, muttering slightly under his breath.

"Merlin's beard, who'd be crazy enough to try and duel against Mcgonagall?"

It didn't take long for Cedric to find Cho, get the information, and return.

"Well, I've never seen him before, but Cho has. His name is Tristan Siegrain. Apparently, this is his first year with formal magic schooling, and he had to take supplementary courses for the first several months. Apparently he missed his Hogwarts acceptance letter when he was younger because he lived in a different country until he moved to England a year ago. He's not a very social person, and spends a lot of time in the library. He's also very diligent, and does every single assignment quickly, even for Ravenclaws. A lot of people in that house are coming to him with questions and requests for help, but he doesn't seem to like the attention. All in all, he's a bit different, but he is a good student. Nothing about him really stands out except for his background and the fact that Snape seems to hate him a tad more than the other Ravenclaws, though that probably has more to do with Professor Snape than Tristan."

 _"This is his first year in a magical school?"_

Erza was surprised that someone who'd had less than a year of magical experience had managed to wrest her spot as top of the class from her, given that she'd been mentored by various experts in every magical field since birth.

"Erza?"

She blinked quickly and realized she'd spaced out on Cedric.

"Hm? Oh, sorry! What did you say?"

"I asked if I should go get more information."

"No, no. It's fine, I'm just surprised that this is his first year formally studying magic."

"Yeah. Most people who come in late are usually homeschooled, but according to Cho, he's never mentioned anything about homeschooling."

"Thanks Cedric. Sorry about the trouble."

Cedric laughed good-naturedly and waved off the apology.

"It's nothing. Good night."

Erza bid the prefect good night and headed to her bedroom. Most students assigned to polishing the surprisingly large number of ornate candelabras in the Great Hall were usually wiped out by the time they went to sleep. However, Erza was a lot more athletic than the typical Hogwarts student, having fenced since the age of five. As such, physical tasks that would have exhausted other students had little effect on her.

As she lay on her bed, she realized that she was having difficulty coming to terms over the argument with Siegrain. The argument in the library was simply ridiculous, and the only emotion she felt about it was shame and embarrassment. It was the latter argument, the one she'd had with Siegrain during their detention, when he was a lot more rational and awake.

 _"Am I arrogant?"_

She supposed that she could have handled herself better, but he'd been adamant on his position against purebloods and his opinions of established families like hers had been made painfully clear. Yet despite her indignation, she couldn't help but understand his argument. Nothing she could say could logically refute it, and she wasn't about to claim that she was above dealing with such low-born peasants.

 _"Do all muggleborns I talk to feel the same way?"_

Erza wanted to understand where they were coming from so she could better protect them. While her mother had hated muggleborns and disliked muggles as much as any other high-class pureblooded family, Erza felt as if the magical world existed as a shield to protect the muggles from the horrors that magic could create.

No, she wasn't arrogant. There was plenty of evidence. Pureblood wizards and witches were much stronger in magic than muggleborns. No matter what sort of technology the muggles created or how strong they made their bodies, they couldn't stand up to magic. If Voldemort was serious about his goals of oppressing the muggle world with magic, than it was up to the magical community to fight him. There were plenty of muggleborns who cared ill-intent toward her due to mistreatment from other pureblood families such as those of the Slytherin House. With these thoughts, Erza fell asleep at last, having satisfied her honor, eased her conscience, and completely avoided the question.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, some people who read this fic when it initially came out may recognize the beginning as the previous version's first chapter. I decided that it was too short, as well as provided too much exposition. Therefore, I swapped it out for the more action-packed writing that is the current first chapter (though it's not too focused on action, because the goal of this fic is to explore character development and large scale conflict over ideology). I more than doubled the length of this chapter, and tried to provide a few events that would provide more insight to the situation. The events of the previous chapter will be continued, though there will be some jumping around when it comes to the timeline. I would love constructive criticism or comments of any kind. Feel free to guess who Zeref and the Spriggans are.**

 _When you base your expectations only on what you see, you blind yourself to the possibilities of a new reality._

 _\- Zaheer, The Legend of Korra_

Weak, bedraggled, and waterlogged, a ten-year-old boy dragged himself through the empty streets of a midnight London. Clutching at his stomach, he ignored the fact that movement might reopen his wound. As he staggered toward a destination unknown even to him, he silently thanked the weather. At least the pouring rain had numbed his body to the point that the pain in his side was tolerable. There were very few people out at this time, and those caught out in the downpour clearly had no choice in the matter.

The beggars and homeless who scattered among the street corners and alleyways of the Camden area of London and huddled under makeshift shelters and lean-tos constructed of cardboard would later gather and speak of what they saw: a child with shining blue hair, pressed against his head by the rain, and a scarlet birthmark on the right side of his face staggering weakly through the streets. Some wondered what the boy had been thinking, walking alone in a downpour. Others recognized the soggy clothing that hugged his slender frame as the uniform of an orphanage in uptown London and realized that he was a runaway. Nothing about him stood out, not his appearance, not his situation, not his pain.

What none of the bystanders heard were the words the boy repeated. Muted by the drone of the rain and his own weakness, the muttered quote was practically silent. Such a weak noise seemed impossibly small and insignificant when compared to the world. However, to the boy, his words drove him on, and prevented him from giving in to the abuse the world around him dispensed. It was just abuse, not unlike anything he'd experienced before.

The words were not his, and he did not recognize the name of the man whom he borrowed from. He'd seen the quote once in a book in his previous orphanage, and now it gave him the strength to carry on.

 _"He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how."_

Nietzsche's words acted as a beacon for Jellal Fernandes, age ten and two months, now an orphan without a home.

Erza Belserion. Age ten, six months, and the daughter of the immensely powerful and wealthy Irene Belserion.

The scarlet-haired girl deftly dodged to the right, avoiding a vertical cut. Spinning the facsimile longsword in her hand, her eyes tracked her opponent, waiting for that single opportunity to finish her opponent. The opening presented itself for the briefest of moments, as the much larger man stabbing at her squinted due to the glaring reflection of the sun on the Erza's shining blade. Though the opening was small and minute, Erza seized it; she swung diagonally, feinting for her opponent's neck, before swiftly withdrawing and stabbing on the other side of her opponent's intended parry, feeling the satisfying thump of the metal rod against the cloth padding. Her opponent lowered his sword and acknowledged defeat.

Nodding respectfully at her vanquished opponent, she turned and left the sparring ring. After hanging up her sword, she took off the faceguard and began the laborious process of removing her practice armor. She swiped her hand across her forehead, casually brushing the strands of hair out of her eyes. Just as casually, her teal eyes swept across the raised deck of the Belserion estate. Her mother was nowhere to be found. She was probably out working. Controlling dragons was quite a difficult task after all, one that required equal and by no means small amounts of skill, fortitude, and luck.

Irene Belserion had been dealt a hand of spades in all three departments. Some called her the "Queen of Dragons" for her renowned abilities in taming these dangerous beasts. Erza respected her mother for her strength, and understood her drive to instill the same mental and physical fortitude in her daughter. However, there were times that she wished her mother had a more significant presence in her life.

"Erza!"

The girl in question blinked rapidly and turned to greet her friend after registering the greeting. Blonde, bubbly, and bright, with a very noticeable French accent, Lucy Heartfilia, the heiress of the Heartfilia estate jogged forward to greet her redheaded friend. Ezra lacked any trace of the accent her friend possessed, and spoke with a slight British accent.

"Lucy! How do you do?"

"Wonderful! How about yourself?"

Erza smiled and placed a light kiss on Lucy's cheek as the blonde did the same. They stepped back, and headed to the parlor.

"I'm a little tired right now, just managed to snatch a victory in sword training."

"I saw your match as I came over. How many instructors have you beaten so far?"

Erza sighed, and then thought about the various "blademasters" her mother had hired to teach her. Either they held back too much or were Erza simply had an immense talent for wielding blades, as she'd already gone through four instructors.

"Well, I learned fencing from that Rochelieu man about a year and a half ago, and beat him after four months. Then I won against Mr. Spencer with sabers...I think it was ten months ago. After that it was Mr. Walter, who trained me until four months ago. It really took me a while to learn how to use daggers. Then Mr. Clovis. I've more or less mastered the longsword. He hasn't won a match against me in two days."

"Does that mean he'll be dismissed? He's so nice, and such a good painter. Last time I came over, he showed me a new organization system for my watercolor paints. I haven't drank from the paint cup in ages."

Erza sighed. Since every teacher she'd had was dismissed from service when they could no longer improve her skill, it was almost guaranteed that Mr. Clovis would not be with them for very long.

"Unfortunately, he will probably be dismissed. I still don't know why mother assigns me new instructor each time I manage to win against the previous one."

Lucy noticed the downcast expression her friend wore, and decided to switch the subject.

"Erza, I learned a new charm several days ago. Please tell that a vase or mirror has been broken recently, I want to use the Reparo on it. Or not, it would be better if nothing was broken. I've gotten really good at the charm, though. I still think I need practice, wait, have you learned it yet?"

Lucy's attempts to change the subject drew giggles from Erza, even though it was rude to laugh at another's awkwardness. The two continued to engage each other in lively conversation and eventually reached the lavishly decorated parlor room. Most would have gawked at the sheer amount of gold, precious metal, and jewels; there was enough precious metals to revitalize the economy of a small country. However, these girls had grown up in such an environment, and this decor was an everyday sight. It made for a strange sight, two ten year old girls fervently discussing the magic they were learning, in a room that seemed like it had been pulled out of an seventeenth-century palace.

Outside, the weather was bright and sunny, though simultaneously cool. The magical boundaries regulated weather, though in Anjou, France, the climate was already nice and cool. This sort of pleasant climate paired the massive and upper class estate made the hereditary Belserion mansion a wonderful place to live. Irene Belserion had married an Englishman, divorced, and returned to her estate in France. However, due to the increased cooperation and unity of the various western European magical groups after the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Erza had been raised to be fluent in English as well as French. In her opinion, she was more English than French. Erza had first met Lucy five years ago, when the nearby Heartfilia family was looking for an English-speaking friend to help their daughter learn the lingua franca of the world.

Five years had passed, and the two girls had become extraordinarily close. As Erza chatted idly with Lucy about the new German family that had recently moved into the French magical community and the three siblings who would likely be attending Beauxbaton with them, she found her stress slipping away. Life was good, she thought.

David Herman was just one of the many faceless graders of England's new nationwide standardized test. Unlike most other standardized tests, the DEM had been created to provide scholarship and education opportunities to children from poorer areas of England such as Camden. Herman remembered that there had been a girl in his college class whom he'd had a crush on. The girl had done a project on the wealth distribution of England, and Camden had been one of the areas that had been the worst off. Where was she now? Considering her work ethic and excitement about her project, she was probably working a high-paying job about social-demographics. Probably a job with a higher pay than a standardized test grader.

Herman groaned internally and forced himself to focus on his job. His practiced eyes flicked over the essay he held. Good diction and grammar for an eleven year old, though rough in some areas. His eyes widened as he read; every part of this essay was excellent. Though not as good as more elite schools for the ultra-competitive elementary schoolers, it was certainly of a higher caliber than expected from an eleven year old. Herman quickly noted the name. Jellal Fernandes.

Herman's fingers clacked on the four-year old PC on his desk as he accessed the multiple-choice scores for the blue-haired boy. Exemplary in every category. Such scores would place him in the above-average bracket for those in standard public schooling, again, not impossible but certainly difficult for an orphan. Herman typed in his thoughts on the essay, copied the multiple-choice scores onto the document, and sent it off to his superiors.

"Congratulations Mr. Fernandes. It's practically impossible for you to miss this scholarship." Herman thought to himself as he pulled the next essay off the pile next to him. Eyes flicking over it, he noticed seventeen grammar errors and more than a dozen misspelled words in the first paragraph alone. Herman muttered cynically to himself, "That blue-haired boy probably has a brighter future than me."

 _This is a surprise._

Erza quickly concealed her shock and looked up at her mother.

"Why am I going to Hogwarts instead of Beauxbaton?"

Irene narrowed her eyes. Glaring down at her daughter as if her mere presence was irritating, Irene Belserion was clearly not in a good mood.

"Why? Because Beauxbaton is a school that emphasizes the wrong values. I didn't raise my daughter to be such a weakling. You must be strong, and Beauxbaton is not a place where you can fully develop yourself."

 _And Hogwarts can?_

Erza looked down to avoid the glare and didn't dare to voice her retort. She knew that it was a lie, a bald-faced lie. Hogwarts and Beauxbaton were very similar in their teachings. Beauxbaton had just as impressive magical education system as Hogwarts did. For French magical families like the Belserion lineage, there was no reason to choose to send their children to Hogwarts or Durmstrang or any other magical school in the world as all were mostly equal. Therefore, families often chose to send their children to the nearest schools. Erza had been preparing to attend Beauxbaton for years now, along with Lucy Heartfilia and the Strauss siblings. However, Irene had insisted that Erza complete her magical education at home, and attend one of the schools as a sixth year student in order ensure success in the N.E.W.T exams the following year. As for why Erza had been sent to Hogwarts, she knew her mother equated independence with strength, and therefore sought to maintain a safe distance between her daughter and her friends.

Erza was now seventeen and two months old, and was astute enough to recognize the patterns her mother exhibited when it came to making decisions in the education of her daughter.

It was always about individual strength. Just as her tutors were employed as long as they could teach Erza, her friends only existed in her life as long as Irene wished. Teachers, friends, and even her mother were never allowed to stay in Erza's life long enough to become close. It seemed as if Irene had deemed her friendship with Lucy and Mirajane as too close and wanted to separate them.

 _"The only kinds of strength that matter are the ones you can wield by yourself."_

Erza had heard it time and time again.

"Erza."

The girl in question blinked rapidly and looked back up at her mother.

"Yes?"

"Pack your things. You head to King's Cross tomorrow."

Erza nodded docilely. She knew she wouldn't be allowed to say goodbye to her friends before she left. It had been awhile since she had last visited England and spoken to Headmaster Dumbledore. At least he was kind, according to her memory.

Arriving back in her room, she first went to her wardrobe and began to sort out the clothing she would bring. Hogwarts had its own uniform, but there were parties and balls in school, and Belserion would probably make her attend some of the parties in order to prepare her for taking over the estate. She packed a midnight black gown and hesitated when she reached for her favorite red dress. After a few moments of contemplation, she put it back. Irene would probably berate her if she wore something too childish. Perhaps she should also consider which house she would end up in, and pack clothes that fit the color scheme.

Did Hogwarts have an area where she could practice her fencing? What classes should she take? These questions plagued Erza for the remainder of the day.

Newcastle, Great Britain, was one of the more developed areas of the country. If one visited a certain gym at 4pm to 6pm on Saturdays, then it was highly likely that they would have an encounter with a certain blue-haired individual. Jellal Fernandes danced around a punching bag, guarding against imaginary blows and sending very real ones back into the doughy target. From the speed of his attacks and light footing, it was obvious that this boy was no novice when it came to boxing. If someone was a really avid fan of youth mixed-martial arts, they would have recognized the man as the reigning champion of a youth MMA tournament several years prior. However, few people knew about the tournament, namely because it had been set up in Camden. Not only that, but the young man had gone to great lengths to avoid publicity.

Jellal threw several more punches before launching a vicious front kick that rocked the heavy sandbag. Letting out a contented sigh, the young man caught and steadied the punching bag, and ambled over to the bench where his water bottle waited. As he tilted his head back to drink, he noticed a flicker of movement at the window. After taking a quick drink, he walked across the polished wood floor, his movements echoed in reflections from the many mirrors on the walls. He leaned out and opened the window, only to step back as a decidedly avian form fluttered in.

He raised an eyebrow. So they really did send owls. The bird fluttered and landed on the ropes of the square boxing stage. He approached carefully and took the rolled up letter from the owl's talon when offered. The owl immediately took flight once Jellal removed its delivery.

Though the blue-haired man already knew what the letter contained, he opened it to make sure that Lucifer hadn't missed anything in his explanation. Jellal's dark eyes flicked over the yellow parchment. As expected, a teacher would appear and take him to the wizarding community to purchase his robes and magical equipment. Enclosed was also a long list of class subjects. Another sheet informed that he would have to take a preliminary course for the first few months before he could attend regular classes as he had no record of previous magical education. He figured it would be a bit tough since he was entering school as a sixth-year.

After giving the letter a quick once-over, he slid it back into the envelope and tucked it in the pocket of his black sweatpants. As he threw his navy-blue sports jacket on and left the gym, he mentally reviewed the schedule he picked out for himself. Muggle Studies, History of Magic, Flying, and finally, Defense Against the Dark Arts. Even though he was attending as a sixth-year, he picked out classes that would benefit him the most, regardless of intensity or difficulty. It didn't matter that he lacked the basic knowledge students from magical families would have or the magical experience that others possessed. It was school, and school required work. Work was something that he was used to.

When he arrived at his apartment, he opened a large suitcase and began to pack. Workout clothes, toiletries, and of course, various devices necessary for his "extracurricular" activities. Jellal packed efficiently, and only hesitated when faced with the need to choose between two of his favorite books. Sighing, he placed his well-worn copy of Nietzsche's What Doesn't Kill Me Makes Me Stronger back into his bedside drawer and nestled the paperback version of Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms under Nietzsche's Will to Power and Sun Tzu's Art of War.

After checking that he had everything in his suitcase, he stepped into the bathroom. He fished around in the drawer and took out a bottle of midnight black dye, and began to stain his blue hair. Looking in the mirror, he composed himself. Finally, after years of searching, he'd found the magical world again. Things would be different, he promised. He'd follow their system, blend in with the rest of them, and play the part of the fool until the time was right. As long as he got his vengeance in the end. Allowing his lips to curl into a vicious smirk, he began to apply a false layer of skin over the birthmark on his face.

Tristan Siegrain looked up into the mirror, and mentally prepared himself to enter Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Erza stepped off of the train with her luggage and stared up at the majestic castle in the distance. She watched as the self-driving carriages arrived and began to board. All around her she could her it, as she became the topic of conversation. Murmurs about the color of her hair, her lineage, and her attractiveness blurred over into a background drone that she ignored. While the Great Hall caused many incoming students to drop their jaws and gawk, the Belserion heiress was used to such splendor and magic and remained stoic. She kept her back straight and an indifferent look on her face, her attitude as well as age setting her apart from her fellow newcomers. Most of the new students were around the age of ten, while she was sixteen.

One by one, the students around her were called up, until it was her turn to walk down to the hat. She passed by the tables of students on either side without sparing them a glance, avoiding the furtive and admiring looks she received. The well-worn stool and hat were the only things she saw. Erza draped the battered leather hat over her crimson hair and began to plead.

 _"Gryffindor."_

 _"Gryffindor."_

 _"Gryffindor."_

 _"Please."_

After a moment of silence, the hat replied.

 _"Such determination is reminiscent of a Gryffindor, but the house of the lion is not for you."_

Erza grew cold with those words.

 _"Why not?"_

 _"Because your greatest strength is not your stubbornness."_

 _"Gryffindor is a house of courage. Am I not brave enough?"_

 _"Miss Scarlet, do carefully considered whether your bravery is true courage or simply a lack of a will to live."_

 _"I beg your pardon?"_

 _"Hufflepuff is a house that will better suit your personality, and though I can sense desire to enter Gryffindor, it is not yours; it is your mother's."_

 _"Are you saying that I want to be in Hufflepuff?"_

 _"That is a question you should be asking yourself."_

"Hufflepuff!"

The corresponding table burst out into cheers. Ezra's housemates welcomed her with enthusiasm; Erza herself felt cold dread wash over her. She walked stiffly over to the table, only managing to compose herself and act normal due to her mother's training. The Slytherin table was rather disappointed, as well as confused as to why the heiress of the Dragon Queen had been sorted into the least fitting house. Gryffindor was similarly disappointed, hoping to have acquired the redhead's strength and feeling that she would have been a much better fit for their house. Ravenclaw was mostly occupied with wondering whether or not her hair was dyed or not. Red hair was not particularly uncommon, what with the Weasley family's attendance, but that sort of shade was peculiar.

Erza's face was set in a pleasant smile, conveying tones of embarrassment and muted excitement. Internally, she felt nothing but despair. Ezra Belserion began to wonder how she was going to survive her mother.

Jellal, or Tristan Siegrain, tracked the red-haired beauty to the Sorting Hat.

 _Erza Belserion, the Dragon Queen's daughter._

Even at this distance, Siegrain could see the bright hue of her hair standing out like a fiery beacon.

 _Scarlet hair as red as blood._

He mused internally, noticing the subtle stiffening of her body, the tightness in her shoulders as the hat told her something she probably didn't want to hear.

Even though he guessed she'd been sorted into a house she didn't want, he was still surprised when she was sent to the Hufflepuff table. He'd expected Gryffindor or Slytherin, based on her lineage. Even failing to make that, she was the daughter of a very stern noblewoman, and carried a sense of elegance and intellect, so she would likely fall into Ravenclaw. Hufflepuff, on the other hand, was like a dark horse that blindsided everyone.

Siegrain made a mental tally, adding Erza Belserion to his list.

He took in the hall, noting entrances and exits (whether or not they were supposed to be entrances or exits didn't matter), as well as the amount of people, ghosts, and other details. At the same time, he plastered a naive and awestruck expression on his face.

Eventually, it was his turn to be sorted. He'd tailored his appearance, from his hair color to his body language, to be nondescript and forgettable. Black hair, brown eyes, slightly hunched, nonassertive posture, all of it had been practiced and rehearsed to perfection. He eased himself onto the wooden stool, wondering why it had to be a wooden stool instead of something more comfortable, and placed the Sorting Hat onto his dyed hair. Mentally, he braced himself for the intrusion.

 _"My, such secrets."_ said the hat.

 _"Everyone has them."_

 _"True. But yours have incredible weight."_

 _"And for that reason, I believe you should consider my placement with care."_

 _"My job as the Sorting Hat is to do precisely that."_

 _"Then where shall I go?"_

 _"Slytherin."_

 _"I'm afraid not. Try Ravenclaw."_

 _"And I thought we were on the same page, Mr. Fernandes."_

 _"I did so too."_

 _"Your deceit and demeanor ensure a spot for you in Slytherin."_

 _"Yet you complicate my plans with such a placement, jeopardizing the school, the students, the wizarding world, and yourself."_

 _"Threats will not work on me."_

 _"Will you endanger the students? Are you so arrogant and unfeeling that you will place your selfish duty ahead of the future? Well, it is your sole purpose to sort, as an unfeeling and inanimate object, naturally you would do so."_

 _"Your intelligence and determination to learn would qualify you for Ravenclaw, but the cunning nature you display make you a model Slytherin."_

"Of course. You would place me in a box, and judge me based on what you see, not on what you understand."

 _"My abilities allow me insight of your mind. I know everything."_

 _"No, you don't know everything. Typical magical arrogance, assuming you know me. A muggle kids show conveys this message, one that the wizarding world ignores. You sort us into houses based on our traits, confining us to a single area of development by grouping us with similar-minded people, inhibiting our character growth. In addition, the house system does nothing but encourage conflict among people, and further divide the youth. Light against dark. Pureblood and muggleborn. Perhaps you would see progress in your society if you allowed for new perspectives. Then again, you are just a hat, one tha-"_

 _"Enough, Mr. Fernandes. While it is true that knowing your mind is not the same as understanding you, I can read your intentions very clearly. Deliberate provocation and reverse psychology - you're very accomplished. You wish to enter Ravenclaw? So be it."_

"Ravenclaw!"

As the they had done numerous times before, the table of blue and silver rose in cheers, albeit more calmly than the other tables, and welcomed their newest member. The man in question placed the hat back on the stool, and walked shyly over to his new family.

Meanwhile, the Sorting Hat pondered, remembering the boy's final words before removing him from his head. A very direct threat, even more blunt and open than his previous ones provocations. The Hat was no fool, and there wasn't a way to trick him. The boy clearly understood this, and sought to convince him that it would be more beneficial to the Hat to place Tristan Siegrain into Ravenclaw house. He was quite good, appealing to the Hat's desire to place students into the environments where they would grow the most. His arguments were also rational and pointed. The Hat would keep its mouth (flap, whatever) shut as asked. Siegrain would continue to exist and Fernandes would remain a secret as long as the man with two masks wanted. It had been a very long time since the Sorting Hat had encountered someone so interesting.

Eight months later . . .

Zeref sat in a darkly-lit conference room. He smirked slightly under the plain white mask of tragedy, wondering if these people could be less stereotypical. The people he was currently conducting a meeting with were the leaders of Mythic, a european criminal organization. All of them were dark, high end suits, complemented by the slightly-less-than comfortable brightness of the room. How dull. In contrast, he wore an elegant suit that blended the design 18th century suits with the sleekness and practicality of modern materials. Instead of ornate gold buttons, fold over clips secured the longer side of the coat over the other. He had slim black pants tucked into midnight black combat boots. Any accents on his clothing were dark gray. Underneath the hybrid coat was an underlay with a hood, which was pulled up to hide his hair color. However, the most eye catching part of his apparel was the plastic mask bearing the agonized face of the greek muse of tragedy. With this getup, he looked like a rebellious teenage version of the Grim Reaper.

"Zeref, we need a response, and one now."

"I'm listening."

The synthesized tone of Zeref's voice was reminiscent of Darth Vader. Clearly, the man behind the mask was intent on concealing his identity.

"This unknown organization is threatening our claim to an abandoned military base in northern England. This location is vital the development of our business in this region."

There was heavy silence as all members of Mythic's leadership anticipated the masked man's response. Although the disguise was strange, unique, and disarming, the man had proven himself to be quite formidable, aiding in their acquisition of the now defunct Fire Fang Gang, which had collapsed less than ten months ago. With Zeref providing detailed information of the locations of the FFG's stores of drugs, weapons, and hideouts, Mythic had been able to easily take over its resources. This had allowed them to do what they'd always wanted to, expand their organization from central Europe and get a foothold in the British Isles. What would've taken years, perhaps decades of work, extortion, murder, and conflict had been accomplished in just four months with the help of the masked man.

Mythic's leader, an aging fifty year-old man, had been recommended the services of the masked man by one of their branch groups out in Asia. While Zeref's abilities had been impressive and had yielded incredible results, Mythic's leader hated the masked man's strangeness and eccentricity. Internally, his emotions swirled with fury, railing against the arrogance of this lunatic. Externally, he exuded an air of intimidating confidence and indifference.

Except Zeref didn't seem intimidated in the slightest as he responded with a lazy, "I'll see what I can do."

Mythic's leader glared.

"Zeref, just what are you going to do?"

"I'll contact my sources, and do some investigation. At our next meeting, I'll have information on the enemy. Combat strength, organizational structure, numbers, abilities, how they make their money, etc. However, I will need locations of your supply bases and troops in order to create a counterstrategy."

"You may leave the creation of a counterstrategy to us, your only job is to provide the necessary information."

"Of course."

"When will you deliver?"

"As soon as possible."

"Zeref, your pay will not be sent until we have results."

"Results? Of course, I'll be sure to deliver. In fact, I can tell you one thing about this unknown entity right now."

"And how do you know this? What sources do you have that gave you this information?"

"Unfortunately, providing sources is not my job, as all I have to do is provide the necessary information." Zeref smirked, "However, I know who they are because they're the ones that cleared out the FFG. It's likely that they're looking to butt heads with us because we stuck our hand in the pot before they could."

"Why did you not feel inclined to inform us of this organization before?"

"For a group to take an established gang and remain unable to take it over before opportunists like us, it stands to reason that they either don't have the numbers or were too weakened by their conflict with the FFG. Given that they were either small in numbers or unable to get into a fight, I didn't think it was necessary to mention them."

"Who are they?"

"They call themselves Paradox."

 _"Spriggan One to Warden Actual, I have eyes on Archangel."_

 _"Roger. Standby for sitrep from Spriggan Two."_

 _"Spriggan Two detects no hostiles. Case Jade."_

 _"Warden Actual copies."_

 _"Spriggan One copies. Proceeding to transport Archangel."_

The brief exchange went unnoticed by Mythic, as two figures watched their charge leave through the back entrance of the building. The person known as Spriggan One pulled up in a black SUV, scanning the exit and watching for hostile movement. There was none as Zeref, designated as Archangel, made his way to the SUV and got in. After ensuring her charge was secure, Spriggan One began to drive away as Warden Actual signaled for Spriggan Two to withdraw.

The Spriggans were the elite bodyguards of Zeref. They were wrapped in even more mystery than their unusual charge, as Zeref intentionally made appearances to multiple underground organizations while his Spriggans only made appearances when no one would walk away to spread word about them.

"How was the meeting, sir?"

"They don't seem to trust me."

"As expected."

"Given that I helped them so much, I would have thought they would've have at least provided me with just a little of the information I asked of them. It would have made things so much easier."

Spriggan One giggled slightly.

"That was probably why they refused."

"True. No plan survives first contact with the enemy. Either way, it's not like it matters, I got what I wanted."

Zeref removed his mask, placing it into a holder next to him. He acquired a tablet and input a list of coordinates before placing a call.

"Spriggan Two, by the end of the week, I want you to have toured the locations I gathered, see if you can pick up some hanging fruit. If no opportunity presents itself, withdraw and inform me. I'll have Three run interference for you if necessary."

"Understood."

As the call dropped with the curt and professional reply, Zeref knew that Spriggan Two would return with results. Two was good, especially at these grab-and-go missions. It probably wasn't necessary to have Three as backup, but he attracted too much attention and wouldn't make an appearance in his plans until much later, if everything went according to plan. However, Three got bored after doing nothing for a few months, and Zeref highly doubted that his current opponents had the strength to touch him, let alone kill him and Two. As for his arch-nemesis, perhaps he'd amassed enough strength by now to fight him head-on. Or perhaps not. Zeref preferred the odds to be… a little more than slightly tilted in his favor. Time wasn't a concern. He'd waited nearly a decade to get his revenge, he could afford to wait some more. As long as he was paid back in blood.


End file.
